


The Clothes Off My Back

by PoorWendy



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 19:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20140951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoorWendy/pseuds/PoorWendy
Summary: Faraday doesn’t justlose.He can’t remember the last time he lost, the last time somebody called his bluff, the last time a round of cards had his pockets so empty he couldn’t even ante up to get a chance at winning some of his money back. Maybe he let his guard down.After taking all of Faraday's money at the poker table, Vasquez shows up at his room with a very intriguing proposition of how he can win it back.





	The Clothes Off My Back

**Author's Note:**

> Back during Writin' Dirty April I wrote a cool [~500 words for the prompt "Transaction,"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18404087/chapters/43732643) and assured myself I'd come back around to turn it into a proper fic. I don't think I expected it to end up becoming this 14K monster, but four months later, here we are. Enjoy!

Faraday doesn’t just _lose._ He can’t remember the last time he lost, the last time somebody called his bluff, the last time a round of cards had his pockets so empty he couldn’t even ante up to get a chance at winning some of his money back.

Maybe he let his guard down.

A friendly game, that’s what they call it. (Even though Faraday knows there’s no such thing, not really—certainly not the way he plays.) Faraday, Goodnight, a couple men from around town who opt in for a hand or two, and Vasquez.

Vasquez, who seems able to read Faraday, and who Faraday finds himself frustratingly unable to read. Vasquez, whose self-assured nature has gotten under Faraday’s skin since the moment they met. And so Faraday ends up making stupid choices. Calling when he ought to fold. Folding when he _swears_ Vasquez is bluffing. Finally (and most stupidly) going all in on a whim. And losing.

He’s hardly drunk enough to merit the loss, and his cheeks flush with embarrassment as he tries to excuse himself without letting on how humiliated he is, or at least quickly enough to limit the amount of time he spends so thoroughly humiliated in front of everybody.

He’s sitting up in his bed, mindlessly shuffling his cards, fighting the urge to light a smoke (because now the tobacco he’s got left is suddenly precious and in need of rationing) when there’s a knock at his door. He groans and gets up, but hasn’t quite reached the door yet when it swings open.

Vasquez is leaning against the doorframe, a shit-eating grin on his face, half a bottle of whiskey in his hand.

“Ain’t got any more money,” Faraday mutters, “if you’re looking to play another hand.”

Vasquez laughs. “I know you don’t,” he says, nudging past Faraday and letting himself in. “Wouldn’t have left the table if you did.”

“Come on in,” Faraday says, incredulous. “I’d think a wanted man would have more sense than to be invading somebody’s privacy like this.” Faraday thinks how he could well have been undressed, asleep.

Vasquez shrugs. “Took a gamble,” he says, and Faraday thins his eyes at the choice of words. “You throwing me out?” He offers the bottle.

Faraday rolls his eyes. “What is it you want, then?” he asks, grabbing the whiskey. He takes a long drink as he turns and closes the door.

Vasquez takes a look around the room, bites at his fingernail. “Thought you might like to win some of your money back.”

Faraday sneers. “I told ya, I don’t—”

“I know, no money,” Vasquez says impatiently. “You must have something to put up.”

“If I did, you think I’d be here?” Faraday bites out, hands the bottle roughly back to Vasquez. “Rode into this town on a horse I don’t rightly own at the moment, and you won every penny in my pocket.” Vasquez smiles at that, too pleased at being reminded that he took all Faraday’s money. “’Sides that? Deck of cards, couple more smokes.” He almost wishes he hadn’t mentioned those, or at least that he’d let himself smoke one of them, now that he thinks of Vasquez claiming them.

Vasquez says nothing, gaze just drifting around the room, and then to Faraday.

“Damn it, I told ya, didn’t I?” Faraday laments, wondering why Vasquez finds it so necessary to rub salt in the wound. “That’s all I got. I mean, Jesus, what d’ya want, the clothes off my back?”

At this, Vasquez cocks an eyebrow. Faraday’s belly drops. “For a start,” Vasquez answers slowly, taking a slight step toward him.

_Oh._ Faraday licks his lips. “On what,” he begins, wishing his voice would come out just a bit stronger, “one hand?”

“Not sure I trust you to deal,” Vasquez says, and Faraday wrinkles his nose at the accusation.

“If I was gonna cheat, probably woulda done it a little sooner,” he says. “I coulda, y’know,” he goes on, shuffling with probably a little too much showmanship. “I’m sure you’ve heard I got a knack for sleight of hand.” He offers a little smirk with that.

Vasquez tilts his head, raises his eyebrows briefly, like maybe he’s admitting that claim. But then he points out, “Heard you were good at cards, too,” smug as anything, and Faraday stops shuffling.

“What’s your offer, exactly, muchacho?” Faraday asks, getting a little tired of dancing around the subject. The back and forth is fun, but even if he’s got an actual deck in his hands, Vasquez is holding all the cards.

Vasquez laughs, reaches behind him and produces a purse. “This is everything you lost,” he says, and he turns to walk over to the little table in the corner of the room and drops Faraday’s money there before taking a seat at one of the wicker chairs, making himself comfortable, bottle in his lap.

Faraday nods, pulse thrumming in his ears. He moves slowly toward Vasquez. “And what’ll it take for me to meet that?” he asks, still fidgeting with his cards, keeping his hands busy, not daring to stay still for even a moment.

Vasquez tilts his head, considering, eyeing Faraday up and down. He brings his hand up and taps at his own throat. Faraday nods again, puts the deck of cards down on the table, and unties the bandana from around his neck. He drops it on top of the purse, and then, being smart enough to know his money’s worth more than that, he lets his hands fall to his sides and waits. “The vest,” Vasquez says, and he’s still smiling, but he’s looking just a bit more serious as well. Hungrier.

Faraday unbuttons his vest, slowly, watching carefully as he does, taking note of the way Vasquez shifts in his seat, the way Vasquez can’t take his eyes off of him as he takes a long drink and puts the bottle on the table. Faraday lazily folds the vest and puts it on top of his bandana. “What else?” he asks, feeling a hell of a lot bolder than he would have been able to imagine when he’d run from the table an hour ago, tail tucked between his legs.

Vasquez bites his lip, thinking. “Belt,” he says, and tucks his thumb into his own waistband for good measure. Faraday’s almost wondering why they’re bothering with all this when it’s starting to feel pretty clear where they’re headed. All the same, he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’s willing to let it all play out, fair and square. So he takes his belt off and puts it on the table.

“Suppose I lose,” Faraday says before they go any further. “That my only chance?”

Vasquez shrugs. “Don’t see why I should give you another,” he says. “You’ll survive without these,” he goes on, gesturing to the collection on the table.

Faraday puts his tongue in his cheek, shakes his head. “But that ain’t all you’re askin’ me for, now, is it?”

Vasquez grins. “No, _güero,”_ he answers, and Faraday smiles, heart racing, evening shaping up to be real exciting. He takes a last step toward Vasquez, standing properly before him, challenging. Vasquez reaches forward and tugs at Faraday’s sleeve. “This.”

Faraday licks his lips, nods, peels his shirt off and drops it on top of everything else.

Vasquez just leers at him for a long moment, and Faraday wonders whether his heart’s actually beating loud enough for Vasquez to hear it, wonders how much longer he can stand here like this before he gets hard—well, hard_er_. Hard enough for Vasquez to notice. Then, Vasquez says, “Deal.”

Just like that. Simple.

So, Faraday does. He shuffles the deck, though there’s no real need—he’s been shuffling the damn thing for hours. But still, this hand’s gotta be by the book. Not much use bluffing, and no use at all folding. With just the two of them, and just one hand, it’s more or less the luck of the draw. To be honest, Faraday’s almost hoping he’ll lose, if only to know what more Vasquez would have him put up.

It’s a leisurely, casual hand. At the surface, that is. Of course, Faraday can’t speak for Vasquez, but his own pulse is racing, which isn’t altogether unfamiliar at the card table. But this is a horse of a different color entirely. And for all that Vasquez came swaggering in with the upper hand and a hell of a suggestion for a way to pass the night, Faraday thinks he can feel the energy coming off of him all the same. He’s excited too.

It’s not the best hand Faraday’s ever been dealt. He does end up with a pair of sixes, but Vasquez turns his cards over at the end and has three queens.

“Well, shit,” Faraday mutters, flipping his cards defeatedly.

“Bad luck,” Vasquez muses, reaching out and pulling his winnings toward him.

Faraday rolls his eyes, shifts a little, bare back sticking uncomfortably to the wicker of his chair. “C’mon, then,” he says, impatient. “Another hand.”

Vasquez chuckles, amused. He takes a sip of the whiskey, pushes his chair back from the table a bit. “Why should I?” he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Convince me.”

Faraday stands up, steps over to him, reaches for the whiskey. Vasquez doesn’t stop him, so he takes a long swig from the bottle. “You didn’t come all the way up here to win a god damn vest,” he says. “So name it.” He steps a little closer to Vasquez still, trying to drive his point home, make his willingness perfectly clear. Not that there’d been any arguing up to now what exactly they’re doing here.

Vasquez lets his smirk fade. He reaches forward and tucks his fingertips behind the waist of Faraday’s pants, glancing up at him with a look in his eye that's determined, and wicked, and that's making it very difficult indeed for Faraday to keep himself upright.

"Go on, then," Faraday tells him, and as Vasquez slowly starts to grapple with his fly, Faraday helps himself to a bit more drink.

"Actually," Vasquez starts suddenly, stilling his hands. "I'm thinking about it, and these don't really measure up," he explains, nodding at the pile of Faraday's things and the money on the table.

"Well, what do you have in mind?" Faraday asks, much too aware of the warmth of Vasquez’s hands against his waist. Vasquez looks around the room, gaze settling on Faraday’s gunbelt where it’s hanging off his bedpost. Faraday levels a glare at him. “Don’t you dare.”

Vasquez laughs, tugs at Faraday’s pants to pull him a little closer. “Running out of things to take from you,” he observes, rubs a thumb over Faraday’s hip. Faraday wets his lips, and Vasquez raises an eyebrow. _“Bien._ These,” he says, toying at his fly again with one hand while he lifts the other to Faraday’s chin. “And this.” He slips his thumb into Faraday’s mouth.

Faraday does his very best not to shiver. He’s pretty sure he succeeds in that, actually, but even so he knows he must have done something to give himself away when he sees the way Vasquez grins. “Got some nerve,” Faraday mutters, Vasquez’s thumb playing with his bottom lip, “askin’ for a thing like that. Money’s one thing...”

Vasquez nods.

“Could just cut my losses now, I could,” Faraday presses on, full of shit, only talking to prolong his inevitable agreement

“You could,” Vasquez says, entertaining this little bluff. They stare at each other for a long moment before Faraday finally pushes away and unbuttons his pants himself. Vasquez leans back in his seat again, running his hands down his own thighs as he watches lasciviously.

“What exactly are you aimin’ to do with it?” Faraday asks, pushing his pants down his legs and kicking them toward Vasquez. “My mouth, I mean.”

Vasquez hums. “If I win?” he asks. Faraday nods. “Whatever I want.”

Until now, Faraday’s done a fine enough job of playing it cool, acting unbothered and unaffected by what’s happening here, by the increasingly uneven dynamic between the two of them as Vasquez gathers more and more control over the situation. The truth is, it’s been getting Faraday worked up from the very beginning, and now that he’s standing here naked and Vasquez is sitting there fully clothed, his body’s really starting to betray him. And there’s certainly not much he can do about hiding it.

He puts his hands over his cock as casually as he can, but he couldn’t possibly do it casually enough not to earn a knowing smile from Vasquez.

“Didn’t think you’d be shy,” Vasquez says fondly, thoroughly enjoying himself.

Faraday thins his eyes, swallows, lets his hands fall away as he moves toward the table again, because apparently all it takes for him to get his confidence back is a word of challenge.

Of course. Isn’t that how all this started in the first place? And anyway, Vasquez seems to like what he sees well enough (and what’s not to like?) because whatever this look he’s wearing now is, it’s not nearly as good as his poker face. So Faraday really has no problem with letting his half-hard cock hang about a foot from Vasquez’s face when he reaches once again for the whiskey and helps himself to a nice, long swallow.

“This a little closer to how you figured me?” he asks when he’s finally setting the bottle back down.

“Little closer,” Vasquez agrees, not bothering to pretend he isn’t staring. “You calling?” he asks, takes a drink.

“I’m callin’,” Faraday answers with a nod, feeling pleased as anything at Vasquez’s obvious appreciation. “You gonna deal, then? Or are you just gonna sit there an’ kick yourself for askin’ me to wager my mouth ‘stead of my cock?”

A wicked grin cuts across Vasquez’s mouth as he laughs at that, low and sudden like he’s caught off-guard, and he looks up to meet Faraday’s eyes again. “Much closer,” he says, and Faraday smiles and takes an extremely uncomfortable seat.

Faraday starts out with two pair, right out the gate. And even if he’s real curious about what Vasquez might do with his mouth, the sight of a winning hand is always more than welcome. And after a night of losing to Vasquez—even if it did put him in this fine situation—it feels damn good to know he’s about to beat him.

Faraday whistles, puts his lone card face-down on the table. “Start sayin’ your prayers, hombre.”

Vasquez tries to keep a good face as he puts three of his own cards down and deals out new ones for the both of them. “You are so sure?”

Faraday doesn’t answer, just picks his card up and adds it to his hand. “Well, god damn,” he mutters smugly, entirely for Vasquez’s benefit. It’s another seven. A full house. Lord, he could hardly ask for a better hand than this. “Lucky for me, really,” he babbles on. “I mean, was hardly an even bet.”

“You called,” Vasquez points out. “Must have thought it was even enough.”

Faraday tilts his head back and forth, considering. “I did,” he says, “but, I don’t know. Now I’m thinkin’ about it. Don’t get me wrong, I need my money back. But I think you might be losin’ more than I did here.”

Vasquez rolls his eyes. “You don’t even know if you won,” he says, impatient.

Faraday laughs. “You ain’t got shit, I know that.” He already knew he was right, but Vasquez’s indignant face is reassuring all the same. “What I mean to say is, I know exactly how much money’s on the table right now. But you don’t know what my mouth is worth.”

“Maybe I’m about to find out,” Vasquez says, voice all low and steeped in a desperate kind of hope, even if he’s trying to hide it.

“Well, let’s see ‘em.” Vasquez shows his hand. Faraday was right. He’s got nothing. Jack high, and not near anything else. Faraday _tsk_s as he turns his own cards over. “Waste of a damn full house, is what this is, against a hand like that.” Vasquez groans gently, disappointed, but not a poor sport. “Guess we’re all squared up.”

Vasquez nods. “Guess so,” he agrees as he gathers the cards together again.

Faraday pulls his winnings toward him, but then pushes them off the side of the table. “Let’s play again,” he says.

Vasquez smirks. “Don’t know when to quit.” Faraday grins right back at him and shakes his head. “Thought you’d want to hold onto your money.”

Faraday licks his lips. “Let’s leave the money out of it,” he says quietly, and a fire seems to light behind Vasquez’s eyes. Faraday’s damn pleased to have his money back. He’s glad he’s back in the black, but the last thing he wants to do is walk away from this table right now. The second they started this, it was clear enough what was going to happen. And Faraday doesn’t intend to quit before it does. “I’ll wager you my mouth again.”

Vasquez leans forward, eager. “For what, mine?” And Jesus, now there’s an offer, and Faraday’s cock stiffens again at the idea. And Vasquez definitely notices.

“How’s this,” he starts. “You win, you get my mouth. But you _lose,_ you get my cock.”

Vasquez pushes the cards over to Faraday. “Deal.” Faraday’s good and hard now. He rearranges himself a little in his seat, wicker cutting into the skin all down his backside. It’s uncomfortable, but it feels just about exactly right, the perfect complement to how alight his body is. He doesn’t want to get comfortable. He wants to get through this god damn hand. “Not going to get dressed?” Vasquez asks him, eyes darting indecisively over Faraday’s many exposed parts.

“What for?” Faraday asks casually, shuffling the cards. “’S what you get for callin’ me shy, anyway,” he goes on. “Can’t well have you thinkin’ that about me.”

Vasquez laughs. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” he observes, still staring. “Definitely proved yourself.”

Faraday deals. His cards aren’t nearly as promising as his last hand was. Truth is, he’d be happy to lose, just like he wouldn’t _really_ have minded losing the last hand either. He’s ready to give his mouth up, ready to show Vasquez just what he can do, ready to wipe that smug look right off his face. But he sure wouldn’t complain if he won, either. Vasquez didn’t seem very bothered by the prospect of earning his cock, and Faraday can’t quite help but imagine the ways he might use it.

Still, it all seems less and less likely the longer he looks at his hand. He’s holding out for a flush—for a damn _miracle,_ really—when he gets rid of two cards.

Faraday isn’t sure what he’s expecting, a bit more banter maybe. But they’re oddly silent, just leveling glares at each other until Vasquez finally lays his cards on the table. A baby straight. Faraday’s got nothing, nothing but three clubs, and he sighs at his hand. “Guess my number’s up,” he mutters, flipping his cards over.

Vasquez slides his chair back from the table and starts unbuttoning his pants. “Get over here,” he says, and Faraday really doesn’t have to be told twice. He gets up, grabs the bottle of whiskey and takes a sip before handing it directly to Vasquez and getting to his knees in front of him. Vasquez takes another drink before he puts the near-empty bottle on the table and pulls his cock out, starts stroking himself while Faraday stares unabashedly.

“Gotta say,” Faraday breathes out, leaning closer, but not quite close enough. “Doesn’t exactly feel like losin’.”

Vasquez bites his lip, reaches out with his free hand and takes a hold of Faraday’s jaw, light and gentle at first, sliding his thumb into his mouth again like he did before. “Show me what this mouth is worth.” His voice is gruff, sends a shiver down Faraday’s spine, and he closes his lips around Vasquez’s thumb, sweeping his tongue across it, groaning just a little as Vasquez digs his fingernails into the skin behind his jaw before letting go and grabbing a fistful of his hair instead.

“Shit,” Faraday hisses, cock twitching helplessly where it hangs between them. They lock eyes as Vasquez pulls him forward, and it isn’t a suggestion—it isn’t some way of saying, _Let’s get started._ Vasquez is _starting,_ and Faraday opens his mouth wide just in time for Vasquez’s cock to push inside, a moan of surprise and plain arousal slipping out of him without warning.

Vasquez at least has the decency to work up to it, starts out by pulling Faraday’s head back and forth in shallow, slow, steady strokes. Even so, Faraday adjusts promptly, minds his teeth and keeps his tongue nice and flat and hollows his cheeks. Every so often, he hums a little, contented and encouraging, trying to tell Vasquez to pull him around just however he pleases. A bet’s a bet, after all, and he oughta get his money’s worth.

And all his sweet, greedy humming seems to do the trick, because Vasquez keeps a grip on his hair with one hand, but the other wanders gratefully, over his cheek and then around the back of his neck and then toying with his earlobe, soft and insistent. He’s growling words Faraday can’t understand, spliced with weak little gasps, his own hums of encouragement.

Faraday has the sense to look up at him after a short while, to study Vasquez’s face as he makes all those lovely sounds. He has to fight the urge to smile, not wanting to bare his teeth, not wanting to bring Vasquez out of his reverie for even a second. Eyes screwed shut tight, brow knit, tongue darting out over his lips whenever he’s not mumbling in Spanish. God, it’s a hell of a sight.

He brings his hands up to Vasquez’s knees, runs them up the insides of his thighs, pushes his thumb along the crease of his groin through his pants. Vasquez tilts his head back, muttering toward the ceiling. Faraday lets his other hand roam up beneath Vasquez’s shirt, up his chest, brushing over his nipple and drinking in the way it makes him squirm. 

_“Güero,”_ he sighs, tightens his grip on Faraday’s hair. _“Hijo de puta, es tan bueno.”_ He brings his other hand around to the back of Faraday’s head and pulls him farther forward, pulls him _harder._ And Faraday groans out a garbled sound as the head of Vasquez’s cock nudges the back of his throat. It’s certainly not a complaint; this about exactly what he had in mind when Vasquez had said _Whatever I want._ This is just what he’s been waiting for.

He breathes hard through his nose as Vasquez yanks him forward a few more times before holding him steady and trying to push up into his throat. Faraday’s making obscene sounds around his cock, and Vasquez is grunting and struggling to get the leverage he needs to thrust his hips, and a few moments later he swears and pulls Faraday off with a firm grip. “Jesus,” Faraday gasps, drooling. “What’re—”

Vasquez cuts him off with a bruising kiss, hard and hungry. It takes Faraday by surprise—he’s barely got time to register it before Vasquez is pulling away without warning, Faraday’s bottom lip caught painfully between his teeth as he growls, “Here.” Then he’s standing up and letting go so he can push his pants down to his knees. “Alright?” he asks brusquely, and takes Faraday’s head in both hands again, making him look up at him. The sudden and insistent force behind his every movement has Faraday’s cock _painfully_ hard, but he knows he'd sit aching like this for hours, letting Vasquez use him.

He nods frantically. “Alright,” he says. “Keep goin’.”

Vasquez sweeps a startlingly gentle thumb over his poor bottom lip, momentarily soothing the flesh he just treated so harshly. “Open,” he says, pushes Faraday’s hair away from his forehead with one hand and takes his jaw firmly in the other. “Doing good, _güero,_ real good.” 

“Fuck,” Faraday mumbles, cock starting to leak on the floor. Instinctively, he makes to nod, but Vasquez doesn’t let up his hold enough to allow it. So he just opens his mouth wide, keeps his eyes trained on Vasquez’s, somewhere in between challenge and surrender. Vasquez is breathing shallow, desperate breaths, and this time he doesn’t pull Faraday forward. Instead, he keeps Faraday still as he slides his cock back inside his mouth, sighing loud and weak as he does it.

_“Sí, sí, sí,”_ Vasquez chants quickly, much too quickly, as he buries himself in Faraday’s throat again. And Faraday, full as his mouth is, can’t seem to keep quiet. He moans and keens all around Vasquez, brings his hands up to grab at Vasquez’s hips and follows their motion as they start to thrust. And while Vasquez wasn’t exactly _gentle_ before, now he’s growing plain _reckless,_ throwing his hips forward heedlessly.

Faraday can’t get enough of it. He’s staring, entranced, and as tears start to well in his eyes, he frantically blinks them out, unwilling to have his view of Vasquez’s face blurred for even a moment.

Vasquez furrows his brow, face overcome with a sweet sort of sympathy, one that clashes dramatically with the way he’s shoving his cock down Faraday’s throat. He wipes at Faraday’s tears with his thumb and pets his hair and murmurs all manner of susurrations that Faraday couldn’t hope to understand, but he’s willing to bet it’s a bunch of nonsense, because he can tell how far gone Vasquez is, can tell that any thrust might just finish him off.

Faraday’s whining and he’s aching and he knows his cock’s making a wet mess of the floor underneath him. He’s digging his nails into Vasquez’s hips and he swears he can feel every unfamiliar word that Vasquez utters curling warm along his skin. He can hardly breathe, and tears keep spilling from his eyes, and Vasquez keeps wiping them away and nodding at him, and his rhythm falters, and he asks, “Going to take it, _güero?_ You ready?” and pulls his cock out of Faraday’s mouth.

There’s spit dripping down Faraday’s chin and tears staining his cheeks. His lungs fill suddenly, and it has him heaving and gasping a long moment before he manages to sputter, “Don’t fuckin’ ask me,” and it sets Vasquez’s eyes _wide,_ and Faraday’s too hard, too ignited to worry about the way he’s giving more up now than he has all night. One more staggering breath, and then he spits out, “It’s yours, damn it. You take what you won.”

He has about three seconds to wonder what it really gave away, whether it came out angry or hungry or spineless. There’s something in the look on Vasquez’s face, though, as he shoves his cock back into Faraday’s mouth, that seems to suggest to Faraday that the desperation in his demand was perfectly clear.

_“Carajo,”_ Vasquez growls, followed by a long, quick string of words that are surely just as obscene as he pushes even deeper still, locking eyes with Faraday for one devastating moment before he throws his head back and spends down his throat.

Faraday can hardly believe that he manages to take it all, swallows every last bit of it, keeps breathing. It’s not the first time he’s done this to another man, but it’s been quite a while, and he’s never let somebody use him up like this. He would never have expected to go so weak for it.

Doesn’t matter what he expected, because here he is, stark naked on his knees with the taste of Vasquez’s spend still in his mouth, and doing his best not to climb back up and rut up against him.

He doesn’t have to fight the impulse for too long, because Vasquez drops to his knees and gets a softer hold on his face, wiping at his tears, breathing heavily, leaning in to push his tongue into his mouth.

Faraday wraps his arms around Vasquez’s neck, presses close as he can against him, rocking his hips forward the moment he’s got something to rock against. Vasquez tears his mouth away, slides his hands down Faraday’s sides, settles one on his hip and moves the other around to cup his ass. “What now?” he breathes hard against Faraday’s ear. “Another hand?”

And Lord, Faraday isn’t sure. He’s not certain he’s got his head enough about him to sit and go through it again, not sure he could quiet his mind or his body enough to think what to ask for. So he doesn’t answer. He pushes both his hands up under Vasquez’s shirt, keeps grinding his hips forward against him. “Jesus, Vas,” he mutters, scratching and grabbing at everything he can reach.

Vasquez nods, takes Faraday’s wrists and forces his hands down to his sides. “One more hand,” he says, and Faraday nods against him. “If you win, my mouth.”

Faraday arches his back, nods again, and when Vasquez frees up his hands, he pushes them up through his own hair as he finally starts to make a real attempt at calming himself down. “Your mouth,” he agrees, catching his breath. Vasquez rubs soothing hands over his sides, his waist, his back, and Faraday gets swept up in the languid rhythm. He lets Vasquez kiss him, all slow and strong and just a bit too sweet. “An’ if you win?” Faraday asks.

Vasquez hums against his mouth and slides his hands down over his ass. “If I win,” he starts, and gently pulls at Faraday’s cheek with one hand before he dips his fingers into his crack with the other, grazing close by his hole and pulling a damning sound right from Faraday’s chest. “Then I take my time finishing you,” he says eventually, teeth scraping against Faraday’s beard. “Take you apart more slowly.”

“Jesus,” Faraday whispers. “What, your mouth against my ass?” he mutters disbelievingly.

He can feel Vasquez’s grin against his jaw. “Only if you lose, _güero.”_

That makes Faraday laugh, even as his body writhes along some wild new current at the thought. His back arches again and he rocks back against Vasquez’s fingers as they keep calculatedly close to—but never quite _touching—_his hole. “You got somethin’ for that, then?”

Vasquez nods. “Have to go and get it,” he says. Faraday bites at his bottom lip, probably too hard, but he’s frustrated at the idea of stopping all this touching, and a bite is better than whining the way he’d like to. “Take a seat,” Vasquez stays, standing, and Faraday swears he can see that he’s already stiffening inside his pants again.

Faraday groans and gets to his feet, grabbing Vasquez by the shirtfront before he can turn and leave the room. “Don’t go makin’ me wait around for you,” he says. “’M not a patient man, even under typical circumstances.” He pulls Vasquez toward him, and bites at his stupid, smirking mouth again. “And this ain’t a typical kinda night at all.”

Vasquez grabs Faraday by the hair again, kissing him and licking into his mouth when it makes him gasp. “Just sit down,” he says, lets him go, leaves the room. And he isn’t at all quick about it, strutting slowly and swinging the door open, wide and leisurely. If anybody had been out in the hall, they’d have gotten an eyeful and more of Faraday.

God damn him. Faraday sits down begrudgingly in the chair again, somewhat grateful for the way the worn wood sticks into his skin. He glances down at his cock and thinks maybe it’d serve Vasquez right if he just took care of himself. Lord knows he wants to. It’s hell on Earth keeping his hands off himself and it’s hardly been ten seconds.

He wrinkles his nose as he admits to himself there’s not a chance in hell he’d give in. He wants Vasquez, one way or the other. After all this, that’s how he’s going to finish: wrapped around Vasquez, or with Vasquez wrapped around him.

He shuffles his cards furiously until Vasquez comes back, which he does, after a couple minutes that feel like an eternity. He swings the door wide open again and Faraday grumbles and sneers at him and it’s all a load of horseshit, because every smug, selfish move Vasquez makes tonight has him feeling like he’s too hot for his own damn skin.

Vasquez closes the door and saunters over to him, places a little pot right in the center of the table. Faraday can still taste him on his tongue, finds himself wishing Vasquez hadn’t tucked himself away. He doesn’t exactly mind the contrast of sitting naked while Vasquez has all his clothes on, but this little game of theirs is putting all his wildest daydreams to shame, and it occurs to him that getting a good look at Vasquez—at _all_ of Vasquez—could only serve to make it that much sweeter.

“Y’know,” Faraday says as Vasquez is about to sit down, “before you go gettin’ too comfortable—” Vasquez smiles at that, curious, “—’m not sure it’s an even match, really. I’m puttin’ quite a lot up here.”

Vasquez nods. “You could be right,” he allows. “You asking for more?”

Faraday bites his lip, lets his eyes pass lecherously over Vasquez’s body. “Maybe just a bit,” he answers. “Like, say, the shirt,” he suggests, real casual like it’s just off the top of his head. Vasquez twists his mouth, nods, peels his shirt off and puts it on the table. Faraday helps himself to a nice, long look at his chest before he goes on. “The belt,” he says, and Vasquez moves to pull it off, but Faraday shakes his head, humming out, _“Mm-mm._ Pants too.”

Vasquez nods, kicks off his boots so he can pull his pants off and place them—along with the belt—on the table. “Fair?” he asks, standing there, shifting his weight back and forth, that anxious sort of movement that always seems to overcome him while he ought to be standing still, like he might have to run at any moment.

Faraday stares at Vasquez’s cock. He definitely wasn’t mistaken before; Vasquez is getting hard again already. “Fair,” he agrees, and hands the deck to him. “Deal.”

Vasquez takes it, sits down, hisses a bit as he does. Faraday laughs at him.

Faraday starts out with quite a hand. And of course, by sheer instinct, that excites him. Then he recalls the unusual nature of this particular game, and especially of this particular _wager._ He peers over his cards—a three and a seven, off-suit, plus a pair of jacks and a king—at Vasquez, who licks his lips very enticingly. It’s not exactly the first time Faraday’s taken notice of his mouth. Vasquez spends all day chewing on things like his fingernails and his smokes, and it’s drawn Faraday’s attention time and time again. So the idea of having that mouth wrapped around his cock isn’t exactly a new one, and he’d be happy to earn it.

But then, as Vasquez sorts his cards, Faraday finds himself all wrapped up in watching his hands. They’re not as deft as Faraday’s (but then, whose are?), that’s for certain. Still, they’re strong and somehow determined, sure, even when Faraday’s watched Vasquez fidget and squirm, messing with whatever just happens to be around. He toys with the medallion around his neck, fiddles with his hat or his buttons, runs his hands restlessly over his clothing. He’s tactile, unquiet.

Looking at them now, Faraday thinks he’d like very much to know how those fingers would feel inside him, opening him up. He squirms where he sits, chair biting at him. His eyes dart to the little pot of salve on the table, and suddenly anything less than getting Vasquez inside him seems unacceptable.

And if it’s been a while since Faraday sucked somebody off, well, it’s been _ages_ since he was fucked. And that suddenly seems unacceptable too. Especially considering what’s sitting across the table from him right now.

“Gimme two,” Faraday says finally, and puts the jack of spades and his king facedown on the table.

Vasquez takes two as well, and there’s a low-humming, dangerous energy between them like the calm before a storm as they each turn their cards over.

Faraday’s got nothing, nothing but his jack. Vasquez beats him with a measly pair of fours.

“Well, shoot,” Faraday says, not taking any great pains to sound disappointed or even surprised. Vasquez raises an eyebrow at him, and there’s a beat where they just look at each other, both sort of digesting what it means. What’s about to happen. Faraday grabs the whiskey and takes another drink. He’s about to speak when Vasquez pushes up from the table and grabs his wrist.

_“Ven, güero,”_ he says, and pulls Faraday up and over to the bed. Not that it takes much effort, with Faraday probably in a bigger hurry. Vasquez pushes him down onto the bed, and it pulls a weak little sound from Faraday. It’s the being handled that has him weak more than the mild surprise of being pushed down. The _real_ surprise is the way Vasquez immediately descends upon him, rubbing his hands up and down his sides and pushing down against him, kissing him fiercely—first his mouth, then down his neck.

Faraday keeps bucking his hips up, trying to rub against Vasquez, against any part of him at all. But Vasquez keeps moving, keeps dodging every attempt, body twisting calmly and smoothly so that Faraday’s poor cock remains cruelly untouched.

“Son of a bitch,” Faraday whines, breathless, thinks he’s got an idea now just how serious Vasquez was when he said he’d take his time.

Vasquez smiles against his skin. “Easy, _güero,”_ he whispers too softly, though Faraday can tell his aim isn’t being gentle for the sake of being gentle. His aim is to do just what he said before—to take Faraday apart. And, Lord, is he well on his way already. “Be patient. I earned this.”

Faraday laughs a little in spite of his frustration. “Patient,” he mumbles. “Don’t recollect you bein’ all that patient earlier—_ah,”_ he cuts himself off, sucks in a sharp breath as Vasquez sinks his teeth into the meat of his thigh, and none-too-sweetly.

“When you win, you can go just as fast as you like.” He runs his hand up the inside of Faraday’s thigh, rubs his cheek against Faraday’s hip, beard scratching his skin and breath landing warm and teasing on his cock. Faraday can hardly keep still. He’s got his hands fisted in the bedding and he’s torn up between watching Vasquez and throwing his head back, screwing his eyes shut in near-anguish because good _god,_ he’s gotta be touched. He _needs_ to be. “And anyway,” Vasquez says, the words rumbling so tantalizingly close to his groin, “I think you like it.”

“God damn it,” Faraday moans, likely too loud. He almost thinks to argue but he knows it’ll be futile. There’s no hiding that he likes it, and it sure won’t get any easier. “Just,” he begins aimlessly, helplessly.

“Just what?” Vasquez prompts, digs his fingernails into Faraday’s thighs, licks a stripe along the cut of his hip. “Just what, _güero?”_ he grits out, and Faraday can’t possibly stand to look at him, doesn’t need to, can picture perfectly the self-satisfied look on the bastard’s face.

“Jesus, Vasquez,” he mutters, and Vasquez growls (Faraday isn’t quite certain whether it’s at hearing his own name in particular, or just the state he’s got Faraday in generally), scrapes his teeth viciously over the skin just under Faraday’s ribs. “Just fuckin’ give me something, would you?” he nearly hollers, and Vasquez lets out another feral sound, pleased and fond like the purr of a cat, but with a ferocity behind it that’s more reminiscent of the kind of animal you hope not to run into, the kind that could kill you, quick and easy, for no real reason at all.

_“Bien,”_ Vasquez says, pushes himself up, kneeling and grabbing hold of Faraday behind the knees. _“Así,”_ he mumbles, putting Faraday’s legs together and moving him onto his side, handling him with surprising ease. Faraday shudders as he feels Vasquez’s fingertips slip between his cheeks, rub indelicately past his hole. “Something like that, _hm?”_ he asks.

Faraday cranes his neck, looks over at him, not entirely sure how he’ll ever manage to come back from this one. Even so, he nods.

Vasquez grins. “Never seen you so red, _güero.”_ And it isn’t exactly unexpected; Faraday’s been subject to furious, traitorous flushing his whole life. Still, to hear Vasquez say it only has his face going hotter. “Maybe too rough?” he asks, tone all misleadingly light as he leans down until Faraday can’t see him anymore.

“Up to you, ain’t it?” he finds himself replying, and too quietly at that.

And if Faraday had just a shred of his dignity left, it leaves him along with the broken sound he makes as Vasquez _spits_ on him, humming gently as he slides his fingers over Faraday’s hole again, slick this time. “Little better?” he asks, and Faraday can feel his breath.

“I told you before,” Faraday grits out, tensing and writhing under even such a light touch. “Don’t you keep askin’ me. You fuckin’ won me, fair an’ square, so just—_shit.”_ Vasquez growls and slurps at Faraday’s hole, distracting him enough that he cuts his little tirade short.

_“Eres la persona más terca que he conocido en mi vida,”_ Vasquez tells him. “Whatever I want, then, _hm?”_ He kneels upright again and Faraday stretches to look at him, sneers and nods. Vasquez gets up off the bed altogether, already walking over to the table when he says, “Get up. On your knees.”

Faraday’s back arches at the command, at the gruff way Vasquez delivers it. He gets to his knees and watches him, watches as he picks the little pot up off the table and takes too long a glance at the remains of their game. His stomach lurches as Vasquez reaches down and touches the little pile of cards they each gave up, still facedown. If he turned them over, he’d know just how deliberate the loss was on Faraday’s part.

As if it could be any less a mystery that Faraday’s desperate for Vasquez to fuck him.

Vasquez doesn’t turn them over, but he does spare Faraday a suspicious little glance. It’s fleeting, though, because Faraday watches as Vasquez’s attention moves from his face down to his cock, and then Faraday looks down at himself as well. It’s a pitiful sight—flushed dark and dripping an awful mess on his bed. He’s been in tight spots before. He’s certainly faced more daunting odds, more tasking challenges of endurance, of self-control. But he really thinks this one ranks, having gone this long in this _state_ he’s in and not touched himself.

Thing is, he looks back to see that Vasquez is nearly as hard as he is, cock bobbing with every step he takes toward Faraday. And of course, Vasquez can do just whatever he pleases, so he wraps a hand around himself and helps himself to a few nice, long strokes when he gets to the bed, glaring at Faraday. “Bend over,” he says simply, and Faraday does, and Vasquez climbs onto the bed behind him. “You look good like this, _güero,”_ he purrs, and Faraday opens his mouth to fire something back at him, anything, but all that he manages is hot, loud sigh when Vasquez licks over his hole again.

Now this is something Faraday’s only been lucky enough to be on the receiving end of once before, and it’d been quick, and he’d been _drunk—_a hell of a lot drunker than this. And even if he can’t quite remember it very well at all, he’s still damn sure it didn’t come close to the way Vasquez is going at him right now. And he probably shouldn’t be surprised, because Vasquez goes at _everything_ hungry and thorough. And why didn’t it ever quite occur to Faraday just how good this all would be with Vasquez? To have those always-restless hands and mouth _devouring_ him like this, beard scratching deliciously at his flesh.

Turns out Faraday can’t exactly keep quiet about it. He’s gripping the bedding and letting his belly drop and bowing his back and muttering, “God damn,” over and over again as Vasquez grips at his ass and licks across his hole, humming and panting. “God _damn,_ that feels good.” And while he wishes he could just shut his mouth for once in his miserable life, wishes he could feel halfway in control of himself, there’s some part of him that’s urging him on, that wants his mouth spilling gratitude. Wants Vasquez to _hear it._

And that part of him is also pretty damn sure that Vasquez likes it. He sure likes _something,_ whether it’s the words pouring out of him, or the way he can’t keep his god damn hips still, or just the act itself of eating his ass like this. The point is, Faraday can tell Vasquez is enjoying himself, groaning against his hole, barely pulling back enough to breathe, gripping at Faraday’s hips and his ass, keeping him spread as he starts to press the tip of his tongue against his opening.

“Fuck, Vas, that’s—_ah_—that’s good,” he lets out hurriedly. “Jesus, you’re—_oh_—y-you’re real good, sh-shoulda fuckin’ guessed.” Vasquez growls, thrusts his tongue inside, and Faraday just about bellows at the feeling of finally being breached. He’s even slightly taken aback that the first thing that comes out of his mouth, then, is, _“More.”_

What’s much less surprising—if still infuriating—is that Vasquez gives him the very opposite, pulling his tongue out, slurring out something that Faraday couldn’t hope to understand, even if he wasn’t busy spitting and swearing and taking a fierce hold of the wooden headboard with one hand, the other pressing down, angry, against the bed.

“God almighty,” Faraday snarls, “don’t fuckin’ stop!” He’s writhing, he knows, hips torn between pushing back in search of Vasquez’s mouth again and rutting forward, frantic and pitiful.

Vasquez runs his hands all up and down Faraday’s back, scratches his nails down Faraday’s sides, and Faraday chances a look back at him, straining his neck, knowing he’s got to be red all over by now, sweating something fierce. Vasquez licks his lips. “Very demanding for someone who keeps telling me to take what I won.”

Once again, Faraday opens his mouth to retort, and again Vasquez manages to knock the words right out of his head with a simple touch, this time dragging his thumb up the crack of his ass and pressing against his spit-slick hole. Faraday lets his head fall forward again in surrender. Vasquez murmurs something soft and condescending and full of fake sympathy and Faraday just keeps his mouth shut, hoping it’ll get Vasquez’s tongue back inside him that much more quickly.

Which it does, and then Faraday’s mouth lets out shameless sounds, wanton sounds, sounds that ought to be mortifying. And maybe in an hour (Jesus, if Vas lets him finish by then) they will be. But for now he lets Vasquez pull them out of him freely, and he finds that the louder he gets, the more vehemently Vasquez pushes inside him, until his tongue’s buried so deep it can’t possibly be comfortable for him. His beard is scraping and his teeth are digging and it’s all driving Faraday _wild._

“Vas,” he mutters, knuckles white as he grips the headboard. “Oh, Jesus, _Vas.”_ Vasquez hums appreciatively, dark and low. He grabs Faraday’s hips again and pulls him back roughly with every forward push of his tongue. And by now the sounds coming out of him are near as animal as the ones Faraday’s making between his barely coherent chanting. “Vas… _Oh,_ c’mon… _C’mon.”_

And after enough of that, Vasquez pulls his tongue out, seals his mouth around Faraday’s hole and laps at him, graceless and loud and messy as Faraday keeps whining absently for more. Then he pulls away entirely, and all at once his weight is gone from the mattress. _“Bien, güero,”_ he rasps. “Stay right there. Just like that.”

Faraday nods frantically, although he does peer behind himself again to try and get a look at where he’s gone. He watches while Vasquez wanders to the wash basin, dips his hands in just as entitled as you like, and bends over to slosh a great deal of water on his face, scrubbing his fingers roughly through his beard. Faraday admires the sight, the wiry bend of his spine, the way all his muscles shift beneath his skin. He reminds himself never again to be fooled by his misleadingly lean frame. He drops his head and bows his back and tries to think of some way to put himself on ice until Vasquez makes his way back over.

When he finally does (and who knows how long it’s been, the way fire’s creeping over Faraday’s skin is too disorienting—the minutes feel like hours) he makes a predatory sort of rumble deep in his chest, stays standing beside the bed as he passes cool, still-damp hands over Faraday’s back.

“Very good, _güero,”_ he murmurs, and it’s soft but it seems to Faraday that he’s having just a bit of trouble keeping his tone and his touch as cruelly gentle as he’d like them to be. “Who knew you’d be so good?” he says, out of breath. “So _hungry.”_ He walks up beside Faraday’s head, grabs his chin and angles his face he can watch from inches away as he strokes his cock. Faraday’s mouth hangs open as he pants desperately, and Vasquez mumbles, _“Poco más, güero, poco más de este…”_ before his words trail off, so slurred that Faraday can’t make out a one of them.

Vasquez keeps a firm hold on his jaw as he brushes the head of his cock over Faraday’s lips, leaving them sticky-wet, and Faraday just opens wider, lets his tongue hang out so Vasquez can rub his cockhead against it. He tastes so _good,_ and he’s swearing, and Faraday’s making high, breathy sounds he’s not sure he’s ever made before—sounds he’s certainly never let anybody hear. He’s rocking back and forth, cock starting to ache, ass feeling too empty.

Suddenly, Vasquez lets him go and backs away all at once, growling like a god damn animal. “Enough,” he says, “this isn’t where I want to stick my cock.” He climbs up behind him again, rubs the wet head of his cock against Faraday’s thigh, his ass, teases it along his crack.

“Fuck,” Faraday gasps. “Fuck, c’mon.”

Vasquez, for the first time tonight, doesn’t argue, doesn’t _tsk_ or tease or hum at Faraday like he’s some petulant child or pitiful dog. _“Bien,”_ he says simply, and Faraday can hear the little pot opening, can hear Vasquez’s quiet and determined little breaths. And a few moments later, a slick finger is pressing against his hole, tentative only for a second before sliding insistently past the muscle and pushing inside.

_“Oh,”_ Faraday sighs, long and drawn out and relieved. So relieved, he almost lets slip the words, _Thank you,_ and thank god he manages to bite it back, because for all he’s given up tonight, that’d be just too god damn much. His mouth, for want of _something_ to say, just chants, “Vas, Vasquez, Vas…” And Vasquez buries that finger deep, really lets Faraday _feel_ it before he begins pushing in and out. And Faraday’s trying not to clench so tight around it, but _fuck,_ he can’t help it, and Vasquez hisses.

After just a minute or two, Faraday feels a second finger playing around his rim, and he nods desperately. “Ready for more, _güerito?”_ Vasquez asks, and the question seems to drop, angry, in Faraday’s gut. He turns too fast to glower back at him.

“God damn it, don’t—” he starts, but Vasquez pushes deep as he can and crooks his finger, and Faraday can hardly remember what he was even in the middle of saying.

_“Sí,_ don’t ask, whatever I want,” Vasquez grumbles impatiently. “Maybe what I want is not to hurt you.”

The thought makes something flare, hot and contrary, in Faraday’s chest. He swallows, tries to keep his cool, keeps looking at Vasquez, though he knows his expression softens. “Well, damn,” he stammers, takes a shaky breath as Vasquez curls his finger again. “Y’know,” he says, swallows again, “hurt me a _little_ bit…” He wishes he’d gotten that out with a little strength, but he knows he mustn’t have when he sees the wolfish way Vasquez grins.

Then there’s a sharp, sudden sting as Vasquez brings a hand down on his ass, and Faraday calls out. _“Así, hm?”_ he mutters, laughing darkly. Faraday arches his back fiercely, pushes his hips back to keep Vasquez’s finger in as deep as it can be. 

“Yeah,” he answers, and then, stupidly, not thinking, “Ah—ah—_así.”_

Vasquez laughs again at that, louder, more satisfied. _“Muy bien, güerito,”_ he coos, and hits him again.

“God damn,” Faraday grits out, jaw clenched. It’s _perfect._ Then that second finger is prodding at his hole again. “Yeah,” he whines.

Suddenly, he’s squinting and wincing at the vicious sting in his scalp as Vasquez grabs his hair. He rushes to push himself up as Vasquez pulls him until he’s kneeling upright, one finger digging into Faraday as he presses his chest against his back, leaning in and grunting out, “Ask for more.” Faraday keens at the order, hisses at the grip on his hair. “Say, _‘más.’”_

Faraday groans, the words sending a shiver through him, right to his cock. The command, the way Vasquez was laughing at him… He damns himself for hardly putting up a fight. _“Más,”_ he says, and he can feel Vasquez’s teeth against the shell of his ear as he smiles.

_“Perfecto,”_ he says, bites and sucks at Faraday’s ear as he slides another finger in him.

_“Fuck,”_ Faraday moans, hands scrambling back behind him to try and get a hold of some part of Vasquez.

“You wanted it like this, _sí?”_ Vasquez says against his ear, and Faraday tries to nod, but he can’t. “The whole time. This is what you wanted.”

Faraday cries out as Vasquez tightens his fist in his hair, digs his fingers deep in his ass. “Yeah—_shit_—yeah.”

_“Sí,”_ Vasquez growls, and it sets Faraday’s blood boiling.

Nevertheless, he spits out, _“Sí.”_

_“Muy bien,”_ Vasquez says, voice thick with exaggerated benevolence. He lets go of Faraday’s hair and presses between his shoulder blades, forcing him onto his hands again without warning. “You wanted this,” he breathes out, starts fucking harder into him with his fingers. “That’s why you threw the hand.”

Faraday’s eyes snap open. “I—” he begins, instinctively rushing to defend himself, but Vasquez deftly pulls his fingers almost all the way out, turns his wrist, and pushes them back in, pressing down relentlessly on a spot deep in Faraday that has him wailing and forgetting about defending himself altogether.

“Tell me, _güero,”_ Vasquez demands, not letting up a bit, grabbing Faraday’s hip and digging his fingernails into his skin. “You threw the hand. Tell me.”

“I—Jesus, Vas, I—” Vasquez won’t let up on that spot long enough for him to think. “I can’t—”

Vasquez makes a _tsk_ing sound. _“Pobrecito,”_ he murmurs, gentle and sweet. He pulls his fingers out of Faraday, who falls down onto his elbows.

_“Fuck,”_ Faraday gasps. “Fuck, why’d you—” Then he feels three fingers pressing at his hole.

“Tell me, _güerito,”_ he says again. He reaches his other hand down and drags his fingertips up the inside of Faraday’s thigh, brushes them past his balls, rubs them along the crease of his groin. “The truth.”

Faraday nods, bucks his hips recklessly, leans into Vasquez’s every touch like a pet. “I did,” he admits, broken, and Vasquez crowds his three fingers together and eases them in.

“What did you give up?” he asks. “What did you throw away?”

He stuffs his fingers in, deep, so deep. “A k-king,” Faraday stutters. “An’ another—_ah_—another jack…”

Vasquez crooks his fingers in response. _“Ay, güero. Qué tramposo…”_ He brings his hand down hard against Faraday’s ass again, the pain so delicious that Faraday wonders whether Vas couldn’t finish him off that way, just by kicking the shit out of him. “And why? Why would you give up such a good hand?”

Faraday groans, rocks his hips in time with the thrust of Vasquez’s hand. “You know just why,” he spits, trying to put a bit of venom into it, failing.

“Tell me, güero,” Vasquez says once again, spreads his fingers, stretching Faraday out. “Could have had my mouth around you, you know,” he says, and Faraday damn near sobs at that. “Bet it’s hurting,” Vasquez goes on, and Faraday nods without really meaning to. “Could have beaten my hand with your pair of jacks, and you could have finished in my mouth by now.”

_“Vas—”_ Faraday says, and it’s some kind of plea.

_“Why?”_

Faraday rocks back as hard as he can, lets his body fight where his mouth just _can’t_ anymore. “Because I want you to _fuck me,_ god damn it!” Vasquez pulls his fingers out with a loud groan. “Wha—” Faraday starts, disoriented, but Vasquez rubs a soothing hand up his spine.

_“Un momento,”_ he murmurs, _“solo un momento.”_ Faraday nods, trusting, unable to do anything else as he waits. And it isn’t long, really just a moment, before he feels the slick head of Vasquez’s cock rubbing up against his hole. _“Tranquilo,”_ he says, still passing his hand up and down his back as he presses inside.

Faraday opens his mouth, thinks he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. He just lets out a long, shallow whine as Vasquez sinks steadily into him. It isn’t _rough,_ but it isn’t as gentle as he’d thought it might be either. His ass stretches and even aches a little as Vasquez buries himself inside, the both of them making wet and breathless little sounds at the feeling.

Christ, it’s been so long, and never, _never_ this good. If he wasn’t so caught up in the _fullness,_ Faraday might laugh as he considers how very unlikely it was that he’d find himself spending such an unforgettable kind of evening in a poor little town like Rose Creek.

And yet here he is, having played a few very memorable hands of poker, and stretched wide around the cock of a _god damn wanted vaquero,_ harder than he can ever remember being, begging to get fucked.

Vasquez is hissing and groaning as he takes hold of Faraday’s hips and tugs them back lightly to bury himself to the root. “Oh, _güero,”_ he breathes. “That’s good. Really good.”

Faraday nods. “’S good,” he agrees, rocking his hips experimentally, willing Vasquez to start fucking him. “C’mon, Vas,” he says, then, and it’s not in that angry, impatient way he’s been saying it all night. “I been good, I think,” he says, voice thin, body covered in a mist of sweat. “I know… Know y’want to…”

The noise Vasquez makes at that is anything but a denial. He’s so _hard_ inside Faraday, filling him up so thoroughly, so profoundly. The grip on his hips is merciless, but even so, Faraday manages to wind them a bit, to push and pull just _barely,_ and each little movement has his insides alight. And it’s doing something to Vasquez, too. It’s doing more, he thinks, than Vasquez would like to admit, but it’s all too plain in the way he’s murmuring in Spanish under his breath.

Just as Faraday’s about to start spieling again, to let himself beg some more, Vasquez pulls back and snaps forward. It isn’t _so_ hard—in fact, Faraday could take a hell of a lot more—but it’s sudden, and it knocks him off-kilter, one of his elbows buckling so that he falls forward, bending harshly at the waist. The shift in their position is so quick and dramatic that they both groan, and there’s a long beat of desperate breath and Faraday’s got his hands as tight in the sheets as Vasquez has his on Faraday’s skin.

Then, Vasquez seems to settle himself, because he leans forward (pushing his cock even deeper) and grabs Faraday by the hair again and grunts out, “Up, _güero,”_ and pulls until Faraday’s got his arms back underneath him.

“Shit,” he spits, catching himself in time. Vasquez doesn’t let go of his hair right away. He holds on and keeps Faraday just where he wants him as he starts building a steady pace with his hips. And he took his time—really, he did—opening Faraday up and stretching him wide with his fingers before. Still, his cock’s another story entirely, and Faraday can’t get enough of it, the burning stretch, the dull ache. Every bite and sting and scratch and slap tonight has been some maddening sort of heaven, has reduced him to a such a wild thing, howling and mewling and shaking and bucking. The hot, slick slide of Vasquez inside him now is best of all.

Well, that and all the sounds Vasquez is making. He’s got the advantage of having finished once already, but his breathing and muttering sure make it sound like the patience that granted him is running out.

And it gives Faraday the strength to stir up a little trouble. The moment he feels Vas’s grip on his hair start to let up, he slams his hips backward. _Hard._ Probably too hard, because the feeling is so intense it surprises him nearly as much as it does Vasquez, who groans, and whose hands dart to Faraday’s hips.

The way it caught Vasquez off guard is intoxicating, so he does it again. Vasquez growls. “Easy,” he bites out, but Faraday’s aiming to misbehave now. He shoves back again, and it’s easier, not a bit of a strain for him, and when Vasquez mumbles, _“Ay—maldación,”_ Faraday doesn’t think he’s complaining.

Vasquez still has his hands tight on Faraday’s hips, and now and then he tugs at them fiercely, but for every one of his forward thrusts, Faraday rams his ass back just as hard as he can. He bends at the elbows and bows his back, letting his heart reach down toward the bed, shifting so that the head of Vas’s cock is striking that perfect, sweet spot in him every time, ‘til it’s almost too much to bear, the feeling so fine that he can hardly keep his mouth from running off. “That’s good,” he says, has to rub his mouth against his own shoulder to wipe the drool from it. “God damn, it feels _good,_ Vas.”

And not unlike it did before, the sound of his name on Faraday’s tongue seems to ignite something in Vasquez, and he moans and fucks into him so vehemently that Faraday’s arm gives out under him again.

This time, at least, he reaches up and grabs the headboard, and it bangs against the wall as Vas pushes hard again. And then Faraday doesn’t have the leverage or the force of will to match his thrusts anymore.

“Good, _mm?”_ Vasquez drawls between ragged breaths. “What about this, _güero?”_ He keeps slamming into him. “This feel good? This is what you wanted?”

“Son of a bitch,” Faraday manages, teeth gritted. “Y-y-_yes.”_

Vasquez hums, leans over and presses his mouth against Faraday’s back. _“Qué perfecto, qué hermoso… Te sientes tan bueno, güerito…”_ This new angle isn’t as good as the one before, but the way the words leak hot against his skin, along his spine, makes it well worth it.

Vasquez drops one hand down to the bed, braces himself with it. He wraps his other arm around Faraday’s torso, splays his hand over Faraday’s chest, grabs and pulls at him. Faraday wonders absently, briefly, fleetingly, how long it’s been since Vasquez properly had his hands on another person. He’s taking to Faraday’s body hungrily and eagerly and it’s so much better than he could have ever hoped for.

“The deal was,” Vasquez starts, words broken up between gasps, “for me to take what I want from you.” His forehead is dripping sweat onto Faraday’s skin. Faraday hums out some vague agreement. “But just now you—_ngh_—you tried to take what you wanted from _me.”_

Faraday nods, gasps, lets out an ungodly moan that’s punctuated by their rocking motion. It’s only after what feels like a lifetime he ekes out, “Couldn’ help—help it.”

Vasquez only holds him tighter, pushes deeper, speaks dark and low against him. “I liked it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Faraday whines. It’s so much. It’s too much.

“So I think,” Vasquez starts, and his pace slows, though his breathing makes it sound like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, “I want you to do it again.” Faraday sobs, nods, tries to rock back again, but Vas shakes his head. “No, _güero,_ not like that.” He presses his lips too sweetly to Faraday’s spine. “On top of me,” he tells him. “So I can look at you.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Faraday chants, because sure, anything, whatever Vasquez wants, whatever it takes to just _come._ Still, he _whines_ when Vas slows and pulls out of him, though it does earn him a long, apologetic string of susurrations in Spanish. He’s too far gone, now, to pretend they do anything but soothe him, too far gone to fight the inclination toward leaning into his calming touch.

_“Ven, güerito,”_ he says, eventually, the first words Faraday can make out properly. “Doing good,” he says, pulls Faraday so he’s kneeling upright, presses his lips to the back of his neck, speaks just below his ear. “Doing very good.”

Faraday nods, reaches back behind him, finds Vasquez’s hair, soaking with sweat. He runs his fingers through it anyway. “Fuckin’ incredible,” he mutters, and Vasquez hums.

“Here,” he says, and keeps his hands on Faraday, steadying him as he moves around him and sits on the bed. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Faraday while he pats around the bed, searching until he comes up with the little jar of salve. “More,” he says, and it isn’t a question, but Faraday nods anyway. _“Ven,_ come here.”

Faraday just keeps nodding, falls forward onto his palms, hands on either side of Vasquez’s chest. He throws a leg over Vasquez’s lap and stares down at him. He looks nearly as wild and taken apart as Faraday feels, though it doesn’t seem likely. “More,” Faraday blurts out eventually, and Vasquez moans, sits up, takes his face in his hands and kisses him. It’s gentler than before, but it’s somehow a whole lot hotter too. Like he’s only _barely_ capable of being gentle, of waiting to get back to it.

Faraday knows the feeling. He takes the pot from Vasquez, opens it and hands it back to him, lifting his hips and rocking back and forth, _waiting._

A few moments later, Faraday lowers himself down again until Vas can rub the slick head of his cock against his hole. “Fuck,” Faraday breathes. “Alright?” he asks, not entirely sure why. But Vasquez nods, so Faraday sinks down onto him.

Neither of them manages to be very quiet as he seats himself, Vasquez mumbling and Faraday unable to stop himself sighing. _“Creo que me alegra que hayas trampa,”_ Vasquez slurs out, and Faraday rocks forward.

_“Ngh—_quit that, god damn it,” Faraday spits, and it makes Vasquez laugh, at least until Faraday grinds his hips down. It’s partly to wipe that fucking smile off his face, sure, but mostly, he’s running out of the little patience he had to begin with. “Speak fuckin’ English, would you? Y’get to—_oh,”_ he stutters, moans as he starts fucking himself on Vasquez’s cock. “You get to look at me, like y’wanted to… So jus’ lemme…” Vasquez has a near-pained expression on his face as Faraday rocks down again, movements careful and calculated in an effort to get Vasquez’s cockhead rubbing _just right_ inside him. “Jus’ wanna be able to understand ya…” he ekes out, breathing deeper now.

Vasquez’s expression goes much too sincere as he nods. “Said that I am glad you cheated, _güero.”_

Faraday smiles a little in spite of himself. “Didn’ cheat,” he argues feebly.

“Threw the hand, then,” Vasquez corrects, smirking, panting.

“Yeah,” Faraday admites. “’Think I’m—” he pushes harder, quicker, “—’think I’m glad too. God damn it, Vas, you feel so fuckin’ good.”

“Taking what you want?” Vasquez asks him, and Faraday thinks he means to sound a whole lot stronger than he does. But he’s biting at his bottom lip, scratching his fingernails down Faraday’s thighs, breathing quick and shallow.

Faraday nods, grinding desperately. “Fuck, jus’ want you. Wanna—_ah,”_ he’s there, he’s _right there._

“What, _güero?”_ Vasquez asks. He grabs and he sighs and he groans, eyes flitting shut, mouth hanging open.

“I’m close,” Faraday gasps. “Jesus, I’m close. Vas, I gotta, could you—” he cuts himself off, finds he can’t quite ask for it out loud. He presses down against Vasquez, one hand splayed against his chest. With the other, he finds Vasquez’s wrist and pulls until he brings his fingers against his cock. “Yeah—yeah, jus’...”

Vasquez nods, makes sweet and broken sounds as he wraps his hand around Faraday.

_“Sí, sí,”_ he murmurs, and then, correcting himself, “Yes, _güero,_ let go. Let go for me.”

God, it’s so good, _too_ good. He rocks wildly, insides all wrapped around Vasquez, pushing so much of his weight down that it’s a wonder he’s not crushing him. “Uh-huh,” he breathes out, the only thing he can manage in this moment as the motion of Vasquez’s fist builds that unrelenting feeling in him up bigger, and _bigger._

“Go on,” Vasquez tells him, and is it just encouragement, or is it permission? And which of those was it Faraday was waiting for? “Just like you wanted—_ay, cajaro_—just like… Just like you want to.”

“Gotta,” Faraday whines. “Vas, fuck, gotta.” He forces his eyes open, has to _see_ him, and it’s amazing, the way his face is all twisted up in ecstacy, like it’s just killing him. Faraday leans forward, grinds his hips back and down hard against him. He braces himself against Vasquez’s chest with both hands, grabbing and scratching.

Vasquez opens his eyes and for a long moment they stare at each other, this desperate and unbroken connection in the midst of the chaotic storm they made between them. _“¡Venga! Dámelo, güero. Dámelo. Suéltalo…”_ Vasquez chokes out the words, his eyes wide, like he’s surprised at them, like Faraday’s reaching inside him and pulling them out by force. And it looks like it takes a lot of effort for Vas to stop them coming, stuttering out, _“Lo-lo-lo si—”_ before he manages, “S-sor-sorry,” and then, “You feel so _good,_ look so good, _güero, mald—_I—” and finally he cuts off with a groan.

It’s too much, like he’s forgotten how to speak English altogether, like there’s not enough room in his head for two languages while it’s filled this feeling, this fire, with Faraday fucking himself wildly on his cock.

“Got you,” Faraday moans stupidly, “got you. Jus’ a little more… Little faster, Vas, I’m gonna—”

And he does, as Vasquez _gives._ He bucks his hips up, rough, tightens his grip on Faraday’s cock just enough to make him holler as he spills all over Vasquez’s chest, over his own hands, for so long that he has the time to watch it, and then watch him staring open-mouthed at himself as Faraday paints him with spend.

_“Bien, bien, ay, güero,”_ Vasquez mutters, half-shocked. “That good, _güerito?”_

_“Fuck,”_ is all Faraday can say, over and over as he rides it all out, ‘til there’s nothing left, ‘til he’s worked dry.

And he wouldn’t have thought he’d have the strength to keep going, but he does, even with his head swimming and his heart hammering like it’s fit to burst. Because he can see by the look on Vasquez’s face that he’s just about _crumbling,_ so far gone that he isn’t bothering to try for words at all, English or Spanish. Just letting his mouth hang open and staring at Faraday, at the mess between them.

So Faraday keeps going, keeps riding. And now that he’s spent, he’s got enough of a grip on himself to give as good as he got. “How’s that, Vas?” he asks, steadying his pace, rocking smooth and sweet and long on top of him. “Feels good, y’said,” he mumbles, “that right?”

Vasquez nods, reaches up behind Faraday’s head, puts a firm hand on the back of his neck, uses his other to push some of the hair away from Faraday’s forehead. “Right,” he grunts.

“Don’t hold out,” Faraday tells him, keeps his eyes trained on Vasquez’s, staring hard, well past any semblance of self-preservation. “Lemme have it, Vas.”

Vasquez groans, throws his head back, hips jolting. _“Güero.”_

“That’s right,” Faraday tells him, “go on, say it again.”

Vasquez looks up again, helpless, nodding more. _“Güero,”_ he whimpers, relenting.

Faraday hums, pleased. “God damn,” he says, and Vasquez glances down at his chest again, mouth still hanging open, and Faraday suddenly finds he can’t resist. He takes two of his spend-covered fingers and brings them up, slipping the tips into Vasquez’s mouth and watching his forehead wrinkle and his eyes go soft as he pushes his head up slightly, barely. So Faraday slides his fingers inside, entranced as Vasquez closes his mouth, sweeping his tongue around them. “How do I taste, Vas?”

Vasquez _growls,_ either the taste or the question setting something off in him, and he starts bucking his hips, fucking up into Faraday as he sucks on his fingers, groaning low and desperate around them.

“Come on,” Faraday whines, the feeling almost too much, his insides all at once too sensitive and beginning to ache for _more_ again. “Jesus, Vas, y’take much longer an’ you’ll get me there again.”

Vasquez moans loud, teeth clamping down on Faraday’s fingers as he rushes to sit up, bracing himself with one hand behind him and throwing the other around Faraday’s neck. And Jesus, he’s _strong,_ the way he manages to fuck him this hard from this angle. _“¿Bien?”_ he grunts out, and Faraday nods frantically, tries to ride along with Vasquez’s pace. “C-close,” he stammers, throwing himself into Faraday with all his might, pushing forward, pressing close as he possibly can. “Need to, _güero,_ going to—”

“Do it,” Faraday tells him, “go on, c’mere, k—” Vasquez surges forward, kisses him hard, slides his tongue inside and Faraday can taste himself on it.

(Faraday will wonder, later, whether he would have let the words out of his mouth if Vasquez hadn’t cut him off. Whether he’d have said it: _kiss me.)_

Vasquez slams into him, whining into his mouth, bites down on Faraday’s lip as he finishes, and Faraday’s eyes roll back at the feeling of being filled with spend. Vasquez rolls his hips a few more times; sudden, erratic little thrusts accompanied by exhausted breaths against his mouth. Faraday, in this moment, helps himself to just a little more, can hear Vasquez clearly in his head: _Take what you want._ He sucks on Vasquez’s bottom lip, slides his tongue over it, presses down hard against his hips, pinning him to the bed and rocking mercilessly on his lap.

Finally, Vasquez stops pushing, and Faraday keeps him buried inside as his arms give out and he lets his weight collapse down onto him. Vasquez’s mouth is hanging open as he catches his breath, and he doesn’t argue when Faraday kisses him, and _kisses_ him, greedily pulling at his lips.

Faraday isn’t quite sure when everything… _turned._ But it did; it _must have,_ because it started out all fun and games, push and pull. Taking, and forcing, and pretending this was all about anything besides wanting each other. And now… Now, Vasquez keeps passing his hands, gentle, up and down Faraday’s sides. And he’s not just letting Faraday kiss him. He’s kissing him back, humming into it contentedly.

“Pair of jacks,” Faraday says after a minute, quietly, unable to make himself speak any louder in the sudden silence as the calm resettles over the room.

_“Mm?”_ Vasquez responds, tired, half-present.

Faraday clears his throat. “Firs’ time I ever gave up a pair of jacks.”

Vasquez laughs softly against his cheek. “I’d hope so.” He runs a hand up Faraday’s back.

Faraday smiles, noses up under Vasquez’s ear while everything is still warm and close and soft. “Reckon it’s the first time I ever threw a hand,” he admits.

“Not one for…” Vasquez pauses mid-sentence, stalling like he can’t remember the word until he finally decides, “hustling?”

Faraday laughs, rolls his hips just a little, still wanting just as much as he can possibly take. (He was honest before—Vas could very well have made him come again.) “Not like that,” he answers. “Fakin’ drunk, maybe. Or just lyin’.”

Vasquez hums. “I’m flattered.” He’s still letting his hands roam freely over Faraday’s skin. He passes his teeth over the shell of Faraday’s ear. It makes him shiver.

“Yeah,” he replies too weakly. “Yeah, ya prob’ly should be.”

It’s quiet then. For a long moment, they just sit there in the aftermath of honesty and sex. Then, Faraday pushes up, goes about unseating himself, the feeling both unpleasant and intoxicating. Vasquez groans, slides a finger along the rim of Faraday’s hole through the spend leaking out of him.

Faraday’s cock twitches and he hovers a minute, not wanting to collapse onto Vasquez and make more of a mess, but not wanting either to get up and move away from him. For the first time tonight, he thinks this might have been a big mistake, because with all the heat starting to fade, he finds himself dreading whatever’s coming next, knowing it isn’t very likely to be close or hot or sweet.

Still, he can’t wait around like this forever. With a great, tired breath, he heaves himself off of Vasquez’s lap. He makes to get up, but his head swims fiercely (oh right—he’s drunk), and it nearly knocks him backward.

_“Güero—”_ Vasquez reaches out, eyes wide as he gets a hold on Faraday’s hips to keep him from falling. The grip is somehow familiar. Still strong and purposeful and possessive. “Lie down,” he says.

Faraday stares dumbly. “I gotta—” he starts, but Vasquez just pulls him with strong, gentle hands ‘til he’s settled, lying on the bed.

“Got to break your neck,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. He laughs at his own joke as he gets up off the bed. Faraday doesn’t argue, but he does note that Vasquez staggers just a little as he makes his way over to the washbasin and back. _“Terco,”_ he says, slipping a wet rag between Faraday’s thighs.

Faraday grumbles. “What’s that?”

“Stubborn,” Vasquez answers, wiping away some of the mess.

Faraday snorts, incredulous. “Hardly too stubborn t’let you wipe my ass.”

Vasquez laughs at that, tilts his head, says, “Fair enough.” He gets up and goes back to the basin, wrings out the rag, starts cleaning himself up.

“An’ not too stubborn to put up with all that waitin’ you made me do,” Faraday points out, propping himself on one elbow when lying flat proves to make the room spin just a mite too quickly.

Vasquez nods, still grinning. “Worth the wait, though. Wasn’t it?” he asks, not looking up.

“S’pose so,” Faraday muses, tongue in his cheek. “S’pose it wasn’t the worst I ever had.”

_“Cabrón,”_ Vasquez says, practically giggling. Faraday can’t get enough of it or the way that it makes his chest ache. “Seemed like you liked it,” he teases, making his way back over. “Told me how good I was.”

“Funny,” Faraday says, “I seem t’recall you tellin’ me the same thing.” Vasquez licks his lips and sits down on the bed, running a hand casually up and down Faraday’s thigh. “Don’t pretend you came up here hopin’ for anything different.”

“Believe me, I got more than I was hoping for,” Vasquez replies. His eyes dart down and linger momentarily at Faraday’s half-hard cock before he looks up and goes on. “You didn’t need much convincing.

Faraday nods, would probably blush if his blood wasn’t already busy flooding his whole body. “No,” he agrees. “No, I didn’t.” Vasquez leans down low and brushes his still-smiling mouth up the outside of Faraday’s thigh, over his hip, spreads kisses from his waist to his belly.

Faraday straightens himself out, scoots back to sit up against the headboard, all the while admiring the curve of Vasquez’s spine. It’s an extremely pleasant surprise, that he’s still here, that he’s still helping himself to Faraday’s body.

“Guess we’re all settled up, then,” he points out, nodding to the pile of their clothes over by the table when Vasquez looks up..

Vasquez nods. “Guess we are,” he says, voice suddenly a little nervous. He doesn’t say anything more, just looks at Faraday for his next cue.

Well, hell. If it’s up to Faraday. “Though,” he says, a deliberate shift in his tone, “I’m personally just a bit soaked. An’ it might be more responsible to divy it all up with a clearer head, don’t ya think?” Vasquez grins. “In the light of day, an’ all that.”

Vasquez crawls up his body ‘til their mouths are just a breath apart. “Just to be sure,” he agrees. 

Faraday might not _actually_ be so drunk that he couldn’t pick his own clothes out of a pile. But he’s definitely too drunk to hide the perfectly pleased smile that spreads over his face at the little agreement they’ve just made. 

Vasquez kisses him. “Move over,” he says, then, nudging at him, “or I’ll take all your money again.”

Faraday laughs and gives him a little jab in the ribs, but he moves over anyway.


End file.
